Peter

by Samantha Jay
© February 2002

 

Part 1: In the beginning.

 

"Samaritans, I’m Sam. How can I help you?"

"You can’t, nobody can," a voice said.

"I’m willing to try, if you’ll let me. What can I call you?"

"Peter," the voice replied.

"Hello, Peter, I’m Sam," I said.

"I’m going to kill myself," Peter said.

I pressed a button which lit a lamp on the supervisor’s desk.

"Why do you want to kill yourself?" I asked, hearing the sound of sobbing from the other end of the phone line.

"I want to die, I want the pain to go away," Peter sobbed. " I mean what I say, I’ve got a knife."

"Shit, this was really serious," I thought, in my experience, using a knife was not a cry for help. It was terminal.

"How old are you, Peter?" I asked, trying to keep him talking.

"Fourteen."

I pressed the button again and waved frantically at John, the supervisor.

"Peter, I’d like to meet you, can you tell me where you are phoning from?"

I gave John a sheet of paper. The colour from his face drained as he read the note.

 

‘Fourteen-year-old boy threatening to kill himself with a knife. I think he’s serious and I’ve got to get to him, be prepared to take over.’

John nodded his head in agreement.

"I’m not going to tell you. You’ll only make me stop," Peter said.

"Peter, I only want to meet you, talk with you, face to face. Maybe buy you a coffee or even a coke," I answered.

"You won’t try and stop me?"

"Peter, I only want to have a talk with you. See if we can’t work this thing out," I answered.

He gave me the location of the phone box, it agreed with the information I had. I could see the phone box’s telephone number on my display and I had checked this against the list supplied by British Telecom. But I wanted Peter to trust me and this was the start of that trust the gaining, of which, was vital.

"Peter, I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’d like you to talk to a friend of mine. He’s called John. Promise me you’ll talk to him?"

"Okay… I promise."

I passed the phone to John and ran to my car. John was good, but I had to get there in time.

I drove like a bat out of hell, fortunately it was three in the morning and there was no traffic around. The blue lights in my rear view mirror surprised me.

"Damn!" I swore.

I stopped, got out and dashed to the police car.

Showing my ID to the police officer I said, "Sorry, officer. I’ve got a fourteen-year-old boy who’s threatening to kill himself. I’m trying to reach him before he does."

Before the officer could answer my mobile rang.

"Excuse me. Sam here…yes, John… shit, okay… keep him on the line."

"I’m sorry about that, it looks like we are close to losing him, I’ve got to get to him. Look, can I report to a police station later today and complete any paperwork?" I handed the officer one of my cards.

Luck was with Peter that morning.

"That won’t be necessary, sir. Be careful how you drive and… please save him." The officer was thinking of his own fourteen-year-old child.

"I’ll try and thanks," I said and sped off into the night.

A few minutes later, I arrived at the phone box and saw it still occupied. I phoned the office.

"Chris, Sam. Tell John I’ve arrived and ask him to warn Peter of my approach." I didn’t want to scare Peter anymore than he was.

I waited thirty seconds and approached the phone box. As I neared, I could see Peter’s problem. As soon as I was near enough I called his name, softly.

"Peter?"

The boy turned and I open my arms in, what I hoped would be, a friendly manner. Sobbing, he dropped the phone, ran to me and cried on my chest.

I let him cry, before going to the phone box and picking up the phone.

"We’re coming in, he’ll need a doctor," I said and hung up

I picked up the knife and led Peter back to my car. As he got in the front, I put the knife out of harms way, in the boot.

Once back at the office, Chris and I took Peter to a private room and he sat in a comfy chair.

"Tea, coffee or coke?" Chris asked.

"Tea, please," Peter answered and then thought, "I need warming up, this dress is more suited for warm days than chilly nights."

Chris went to make the tea, but left the door open; she knew I wouldn’t leave Peter alone.

Peter was surprised. These people, the one’s with him now, were the first ones not to ridicule him, or laugh at him or even hit him.

Chris brought the tea and some biscuits and then sat quietly in a corner. We had to protect each other, Peter from me and me from Peter. This way, no one could say that I had molested Peter.

"Peter, do you want to tell me about it?" I asked gently.

"About what?" Peter asked.

"About why you want to kill yourself?"

"My parents came back early and caught me. Mom, walked out of the room saying I wasn’t her son anymore and dad…" Peter paused, started crying and continued, "Dad just kept hitting me. Why did mom say that? I can put up with dad hitting me, but why did she say that?"

Chris went over to Peter and he put his head on her chest and bawled his eyes out.

"You poor child," she said softly, almost motheringly. "You have a good cry, it’ll will feel better after."

We let Peter have a real good cry; Chris mouthed ‘I hate his parents’ to me. I knew what she was saying; I just could not understand how someone could say that to a vulnerable and impressionable child. But we were professionals and we wouldn’t let our feelings cloud the issue… we couldn’t afford to. Peter’s life was at stake.

We may have stopped this attempt, but unless we could help him find a solution, there could be other attempts and it only needs one to succeed. It didn’t bear thinking about. That’s why I volunteered to be a Samaritan; I couldn’t bear the thought of someone needlessly throwing his or her life away. I had to help, needed to help and Peter needed that help more than most.

There was a knock on the door, I opened it and John told me the doctor was here. I wanted to be sure there was no obvious injuries, without X-rays and tests we wouldn’t be sure, but…

"Peter, I’d like our doctor to have a quick look at you, don’t worry, she’s very nice. Would that be okay? Chris will be with you," I asked.

Peter nodded and, after I let the doctor in, I went to find John.

"I think we are going to have to get the RSPCC and Social Services involved, John," I said. "He’s told us that his dad hit him several times."

"I’ll contact them now and get someone over right away."

"Thanks, let’s hope we get a sympathetic social worker, I don’t want to lose him," I said.

It’s not that social workers were unsympathetic, but they did have a very big caseload and this one was awkward. Not everyone, like Peter’s parents demonstrated, handled the fact that he was wearing girl’s clothes well. There were a lot of prejudiced people about.

How did I know? From first hand experience. You see, I’m a transvestite and it happened to me. Okay not as young as Peter, I was too scared to tell anyone until I was twenty and had left home. But the turmoil inside of me, the constant pressure to appear ‘normal’, my parents and friends’ rejection of me, the pain of not being able to be dress how I wanted, all these factors drove me to the brink of suicide.

I knew what Peter was going through, what I didn’t know was whether he would survive. It had been touch and go with me. If it hadn’t been for my wife, Chris…

 

Authors Note: There is a group in the United Kingdom called The Samaritans; anyone in desperate circumstances can call them all day long, all year round. They do not criticise and they do not judge, they listen and they try to help. There would be a lot of people not alive today if it wasn’t for the Samaritans. I have no knowledge of how they work and so the procedures I describe are all from my head, but they have my deepest admiration and respect.

I recently read a biography of someone who has become a good friend and parts of it troubled me. I don’t know why, the events she described are fairly common for a very large proportion of the transgender community and so, they shouldn’t surprise me, but they troubled me. I was sitting in Victoria Station, London, waiting for my train and I was thinking about this. By the time the train had left the station, I had a working plot and was putting pen to paper.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Samantha Jay. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.